


Military T-60 Boy

by raisedbyhyenas



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Atomic Wrangler, Blow Jobs, Crushes, M/M, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 12:46:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8490409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raisedbyhyenas/pseuds/raisedbyhyenas
Summary: A pre-war porn star shows up on the front steps of the Cambridge police station; Danse and his enormous celebrity crush have a hard time adjusting.





	

_Today has been a rough day,_ Danse thinks to himself.

At least it’s not likely to get worse, he thinks, right before Rhys yells -- stupid, _stupid_ , Danse’s helmet had blocked him from seeing the movement in his peripheral vision and now there’s a feral ghoul on top of Rhys, its mangled mouth opened, spitting into Rhys’s face.

Danse takes one power armor-boosted step forward and grabs the ghoul off of Rhys, pulling it up high enough to shoot without hurting Rhys. It’s too late -- Rhys’s pale face sets the blood streaking his jumpsuit off nicely.

“You all right?” Danse asks. Rhys nods -- he’s lying, but what can Danse do about it -- and then it’s back to violence. He can hear Haylen’s pistol plinking away to the side -- at least she’s still fine.

He’s startled by the sound of another gun. For a second, he’s confused by why Rhys is firing again -- and then it occurs to him that the gunshots are coming from an unexpected direction. “What?” he says out loud in surprise as a ghoul staggers and goes down, shot from someone behind it. Danse grins fiercely, then digs his heels in and keeps shooting.

Eventually the seemingly endless waves of ghouls peters out, and Danse is left standing over a pile of bodies. “Haylen,” he calls up to her, still keeping an eye on the entrance. “Get Rhys standing, if you can.” Without waiting for her assent, he marches forward.

The stranger is a large man, wearing what Danse would expect from a raider -- but he’s alone and hasn’t started firing yet, so Danse approaches him warily. Not that Danse isn’t grateful, of course, just -- this mission been a disaster, and he’s not about to risk his command -- such as it is -- unless there’s some compelling reason to.

“We appreciate your assistance, civilian,” he says. “What are you doing out here?”

“Yeah,” comes the stranger’s muffled voice. “No problem -- I heard the distress beacon, I came as soon as I could, although -- actually, hang on a second, it’s hard to talk in this thing -- ”

The stranger pulls off his hood, and, to Danse’s immense surprise, Manny Handel, the pre-war star of Bearback magazine, wank fantasy for countless paladins, is standing there before him. Despite the grime and dust and the mussed hair, he’s gorgeous -- like he stepped straight out of the pages of one of the ancient copies of Bearback Brotherhood initiates have been passing down in the barracks since time immemorial. Or, at least, from whenever it was they came across that gay bookstore.

“I,” Danse says. “Oh.” There’s the sensation of the world tilting a little on its axis -- of all of the possible outcomes of this day, a presumed long-dead gay porn star showing up to be Danse’s knight in sackcloth armor was not one he saw coming.

...Maybe Danse is dead? He’s heard of pre-War civilizations who thought soldiers who died in battle went on to some great reward, and Danse’s is being greeted by Manny Handel. He doesn’t feel dead, he mostly feels tired and sore and in desperate need of a shower, but maybe the nice parts of being dead come later? Or maybe it’s not Manny Handel, but rather his great-great-great grandson, all grown up and become a raider --

It only occurs to him that he’s been staring silently at the stranger for a moment too long when said stranger clears his throat awkwardly. “Um,” the stranger says. “Is this a bad time? Should I just -- ” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder.

Right, Danse should say something. When in doubt, military protocol is the way to go. “Thanks, soldier,” he says, mustering up the shreds of his authority.

Wait! No! Wrong thing to say! Sure, Danse knows Manny Handel was in the military -- at least, that’s what his bio said -- but who knows who this person is. He flounders for a second, trying to come up with a graceful way to recover. “I -- you took out those ferals handily,” he manages, then winces. _**Handily**? For goodness’ sake._

“Thanks,” Manny says. “I’m Emmanuel -- Em to my friends.” He smiles; his mouth is beautiful, and the one chipped incisor that Danse always thought made him look human instead of a porn star is right there where it should be, and Danse would be lying if he said he hadn’t imagined that exact same mouth around his cock once or twice, or four times, or during at least half the time in his entire life he’s jerked off. Or, you know, something.

Anyway, the clone of Manny Handel is standing in front of Danse, wiping his forehead, running a hand through his messy hair. He smells like dust and sweat and gunpowder, and there’s a bead of sweat working its way down his throat, and Danse would like nothing more in this life or the next than to lean forward and lick it off.

 _Keep it together, Danse_. “I’m Paladin Danse,” he says. “And -- that’s Scribe Haylen, and Knight Rhys. We’re on recon duty in the Commonwealth -- we’ve been under fire since we got here,” and he can hear himself starting to ramble nervously again. Manny’s mild stare is still on him and it feels like a physical weight.

“Hey what’s going -- ” There’s a dull clatter to the side. Haylen and Rhys have just come around the corner, Rhys leaning heavily against Haylen; apparently Rhys saw Manny and fumbled his gun, dropping it. Haylen smothers a laugh.

Danse has never been happier for a timely intervention in his life. “Um,” Rhys says. Danse spares a glance at him; he’s gone a dull mottled red and is staring intently at his gun.

“Is everything okay?” Manny -- Em -- says, approaching on Rhys, looking concerned.

“What?” Rhys snaps. “No! I mean, yes! I mean -- ”

He peters off, staring at the ground with a furious scowl on his face, still blushing so hard Danse is a little worried it’s going to be permanent.

“Sorry,” Haylen says. “It’s been a rough patrol. Nice to meet you, Emmanuel.”

“Oh! Oh no, Em, please -- I mean, I kind of figure, you face down zombies together, you’re more or less friends now, right?”

“Oh, of course,” Haylen says cheerfully. “Danse, could I speak to you for a second? Here, Rhys, lean up against the wall for a minute.” She props him up against the wall then slithers out of his grasp, keeping a friendly smile trained on Emmanuel.

As she pulls Danse to the side, he can hear Emmanuel once again attempting to help Rhys. Rhys, who has Manny Handel’s August’s centerfold (cowboy-themed, assless chaps and spurs and all) currently hanging in his locker, who once confessed that Manny Handel would be the perfect man, if he hadn’t been dead for two hundred years. Rhys, who probably hasn’t seen any action for a very, _very_ long time, who is currently fending off Manny Handel’s attempts to help him with a look of real panic on his face. Poor Rhys.

Then Haylen starts talking, the expression on her face serious, and Danse’s attention snaps to her. “Listen,” she says, her voice low and urgent. “That’s that pre-war pretty boy you’re all half in love with, isn’t it?”

Danse is about to protest, but she steamrolls over him. “Because if he’s not a remarkably well preserved ghoul, then we could have a big, _big_ , Institute-shaped problem on our hands.”

That acts like a splash of cold water to the libido, and Danse focuses. “You think he’s a synth?” he asks.

“Well, what else could he be? Look, I don’t think we should go in guns blazing or anything, but -- if he is a synth, he’s probably been sent here to neutralize us. Or, if we’re smart about it, we might be able to use him.”

Danse spares one moment to mourn the thought of Manny Handel the synth. They’re perversions of nature and need to be destroyed, but -- it just seems like a waste. But, of course, Haylen is right.

“Good thinking, soldier,” Danse tells her. “Keep your eyes and ears open.” They nod to each other, then return to rescue Rhys.

* * *

 

By the time everyone actually gets inside the police station, pain and lust and bone-deep embarrassment have reduced Rhys to sullen monosyllables, Em looks confused and rather hurt by his friendly advances being rebuffed, Haylen seems to be oscillating between distrust of Em and entertainment at Rhys’s expense, and Danse has a headache. As Haylen helps Rhys over to a chair, Danse eyeballs Em.

Not for the first time, he wishes… well, Quinlan, or Ingram, or Kells, or anyone else were here. Any one of them would be able to chat with Em, be his friend, draw out the information Danse needs, without Em suspecting a thing. Danse, on the other hand --

He clears his throat. “So, sol -- civilian,” he says. “What brings you here?” Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Haylen freeze briefly, closing her eyes as though in pain. Maybe that wasn’t the best lead-in? At least the power armor is bulky enough his hands have to stay where they are, which takes all the guessing out of how to stand to look casual. His hands sweat inside his suit.

“So, that’s a funny story,” Em says, looking awkward.

Danse tries not to blink. There’s no way it was _that_ easy. Over to the side, Haylen drifts a little closer, looking much more casual than Danse feels.

“It’s going to sound a little unbelievable, though -- I mean, if it hadn’t happened to me, I wouldn’t believe it -- but -- okay, listen,” he says, letting out a little sigh, running a hand through his hair. “...I’m from the past.”

Danse blinks at him.

Em glances up, then back down. “Yeah, right? I mean, it sounds fake, doesn’t it?” He takes a deep breath. “I mean, if I were gonna make something like this up, I’d probably go with something less obviously insane, but… So, um -- have you ever heard of Vault-Tec?” he says. “They were a pre-War company -- ”

“Yes,” Haylen cuts in. “We’re familiar with the vaults -- go on.”

“Oh!” Em says, smiling at her. He’s beautiful enough even Haylen, whose tastes run entirely contrary to Danse’s own, looks a little startled by the brilliance of it. “Well! Yeah, so -- I was one of the people selected for Vault 111, up the hill from where I used to live, and, when the bombs fell…”

He swallows hard. Danse can’t help but feel sympathetic -- it must have been horrible. Who knows who Em must have lost? “Anyway,” Em says, his voice falsely bright. “Turns out was a cryogenics vault, so I rode out the last two hundred years in style -- frozen, like a bag of peas.”

“Or a leftover sausage,” Haylen offers. Rhys lets out a scandalized little gasp.

“Yeah, see, you get it!” Em says. “I don’t know what happened, but -- there was some kind of malfunction, I got thawed out, and I made it out of the vault in one piece. I was the only one, I just... got lucky, I guess.”

Danse glances over at Haylen, who is busy frowning at Em. “How’d you get from there to here, then?”

“Still lucky, I guess,” Em says. “I ran into the last of the Minutemen and some survivors from the, ah -- ‘Quincy Massacre’,” he says. Danse can practically see the air quotes around the phrase. “They’ve been a big help, I couldn’t have made it this far without them. You might be able to raise them by radio, actually -- they’re up northwest a ways, in Sanctuary. Er, Sanctuary Hills, we’re… that’s what we’re calling it, now.”

He stops talking, clearly waiting for a response. “Oh,” Danse says.

“It’s not that we don’t believe you,” Haylen says, glancing over at Danse; Danse is more than relieved to take a step back and let her handle this, and gives her the nod. “But -- we’d like to check up on that.”

“Right! Good thinking,” Danse interjects.

“Oh, yeah, no, of course!” Em says hastily. “No, I mean, it’s rough out there! I’d check too, if I were you!”

“Sir,” Haylen says. With one last glance at Danse, Haylen disappears up to the roof.

After several awkward minutes -- Danse can’t think of anything innocuous to talk about, Rhys is still scowling at the table, and Em keeps glancing back and forth between them and looking nervous -- Haylen returns, looking significantly more relaxed than she did before. “I talked to Minuteman Garvey,” she says. “He told us about you -- and, I’m sorry about your son,” she adds, looking sympathetic.

Em immediately looks uncomfortable. “I,” he says. “Um. Thanks. ...I feel bad for the neighbor,” he adds, looking at his feet. “She didn’t deserve to get murdered, especially with -- you know. _My_ kid.”

“What neighbor?” Danse asks and wishes he could kick himself when Em shoots him a wounded look (and Haylen straight-up glares).

“I. Well, my neighbor was holding him,” Em says. “Old war wound, you know -- ”

“Were you in the military?” Rhys pipes up from the table; when Em glances at him, his face flares a dull red and he goes back to staring furiously at the table.

“Well…” Em says, looking back to Haylen for assistance.

“Why don’t we get some rest,” she cuts in smoothly. “It’s been a long day for everyone.”

“Yes!” Danse says quickly. “Yes, you’re right, soldier, let’s all -- do that.”

* * *

 

Haylen, who deserves a promotion and a nice night out and for whom Danse decides to wingman for for the rest of their natural lives, keeps Em distracted long enough for Danse to hastily snatch up any pornographic materials starring one Manny Handel and stash them in the deepest, darkest corner of his locker, under a pile of dirty socks. Look, as long as he never, _ever_ lets it slip that he’s spent many hours coming up with torrid fantasies of Manny locking him to a power armor rack and having his way with him, everything should be _just fine_. Danse does his best to keep his eyes above Em’s belt, and all thoughts of the birthmark on Em’s thigh, just below his Apollo’s belt, out of his head.

In the next few days, Em quickly proves himself to be an able soldier; he’s smart, a good shot, and easy to get along with, _and_ he’s interested in joining the Brotherhood. Furthermore, he sticks around -- it’s a solid week before he heads back to Sanctuary, having helped Rhys clean up the police station and Haylen install the new transmitter. Danse is sorry to see him go, but Em’s promises he’ll be back soon seem sincere, and Danse goes to sleep with a pleasant feeling of satisfaction.

Several hours later, Danse startles awake, a cold sweat settling in. He definitely left the station’s one full copy of Bearback in the bathroom. The bathroom Em has been using for a solid week. Well, Em doesn’t seem to have noticed? So that’s… good.

Sleep eludes him for longer than it should. Finally, he pushes himself upright, rubbing his eyes. Look, all he has to do is replace this little crush on Manny Handel with the actual reality of Em the person. Manny Handel was some perfect idealized pre-War fantasy; Em, on the other hand, has hair that sticks up funny when he takes his helmet off, and talks with his hands, and wrinkles his nose up cutely when he laughs, and has the prettiest mouth of anybody Danse has ever seen (even if he chews his lips so they’re often chapped), and --

Oh -- _sugar_. Danse flops back down with a little groan and does everything in his power to _just not think_ about it.

He stays awake until dawn.

* * *

 

The police station is coming along nicely -- the defenses are up and running, and they’ve restored power to the whole building, and they’ve even made a gym. There’s only so much they can do to stock it with their limited resources, but they’ve tried. Em is an actual member of the team, now, to the point where Rhys has just started leaving his pinups down instead of frantically rushing to hide them every time Em comes back.

Speaking of Em, Danse should really pay attention to exactly what Em is saying. Guiltily, he reviews the ways someone could hurt themselves weightlifting if their spotter doesn’t pay attention. “I just don’t get it,” Em says as he racks the weight, his back to Danse. “Why doesn’t Rhys like me?”

...Which, coincidentally, puts his face to the mirror of the makeshift gym. And more importantly, his _bare chest_ to the mirror of the makeshift gym. Danse’s gaze is pulled inexorably downwards as a bead of sweat works its way down Em’s abs, passes his bellybutton, passes the trail of hair leading into his shorts --

He glances up just in time to catch Em’s gaze. Nothing in his expression changes -- did he even notice? -- but Danse can feel his face heating up anyway. “I mean,” Em continues, maintaining eye contact. Danse can see the sheen of sweat across Em’s broad shoulders gleam out of the corner of his eye. “I like to think I’m a likable guy -- what am I doing wrong?”

“Um,” Danse says, keeping his eyes on Em’s through sheer force of will. The Codex has some pertinent passages about relationships, especially relationships with one’s inferiors; Danse realizes with mild horror he can’t actually remember any of the pertinent parts. He’ll have to look that up later, really meditate on it for a while.

The problem is that Rhys likes him a little _too_ much, but Danse can hardly say that now, can he? ...Okay, he’s got this, all he has to do is say something reasonable and _not make it weird._

He’s never been this aware of having a tongue before in his entire life. Has it always taken up so much room in his mouth? “He’s just… hard to get to know,” he says. “Are you finished, soldier?” Look, he’ll lean on routine and order, just like he always has, and he’ll get through this just fine.

“Oh, sure,” Em says. “I just need to stretch it out -- I don’t want to be sore tomorrow.”

He reaches his arms high above his head, closing his eyes. When he stretches, his shorts dip, just a little; Danse can see a few wiry hairs escape the line of Em’s very tight, alarmingly tiny shorts…

“I… have to go,” Danse says, and beats a hasty retreat.

* * *

 

Em is out doing whatever it is when he’s not here -- Danse hasn’t asked. He assumes it’s something to do with Sanctuary, or looking for his son, and both of those seem too personal to ask about. Now that Rhys isn’t tripping over his own feet in embarrassment and Haylen doesn’t have quite such a soft and easy target, things are back to normal. Danse can’t help but be relieved.

He and Rhys are cleaning their weapons in the main room when they hear Haylen scream. Danse is on his feet in an instant, already armed, his power-suited feet eating up the ground between the table and the door, already going through his mistakes. He left her alone? Trapped out here with bands of feral ghouls, and the Institute, and raiders, and Elders know what else? He can’t lose any more of the soldiers under his command, he _can’t_ \--

Rhys, on the other hand, is still at the table, hunkered down like he’s preparing to be hit. Danse is rounding on him to tell him to _hurry up_ when the door slams open, revealing Haylen, dripping wet, wrapped in a towel, holding something in her hand.

“What,” she hisses in the tone of voice of a woman who knows _exactly_ what it is, but wants to make a point. “Is _this_?” She brandishes a piece of paper in one damp hand.

“You’ll wrinkle it,” Rhys says, like he can’t stop himself; she turns upon him and he shrinks away from her in terror.

Ignoring Danse completely, she stomps over to Rhys, leaving little wet footprints in her wake. She slams down Rhys’s much-beloved copy of Bearback’s July centerfold, featuring Manny Handel, wearing boots and a smile, posed seductively over the hood of a pre-War car, a soapy sponge in one hand.

“If,” Haylen says, her voice like ice. Rhys continues to cower, avoiding eye contact like a nervous dog. “ _If_ \-- I find this in _my bedroll_ ever again, then Emmanuel will find out about... _the video_.”

Rhys turns at that, staring up at her in mute dismay, the whites visible all around his eyes; he nods so hard Danse is surprised he doesn’t sprain something.

“Good.” Haylen stares him down for a second more before whirling on her heel so fast her hair whips out around her. Rhys flinches when it splashes him. She stomps back past Danse, into the other room, and slams the door shut.

After a second of silence, Danse returns to the table and rejoins Danse, both of them carefully not looking at each other.

Eventually, Danse ventures to break the silence. “The video?” he asks, trying not to sound too eager. Rhys makes a noise of dismay, throwing his hands up before stalking off to another corner of the police station.

… _That could have gone better_ , Danse admits privately.

* * *

 

Danse sighs, pulling his helmet off as he enters the police station. His armor is beyond filthy -- he’d been doing recon when a rotten bridge had collapsed under his feet, sending him yelping and cursing into a pit of ferals. Fortunately even the most dedicated feral has to work hard to get through power armor, but he’s pretty sure there’s most of a half-rotted ghoul gumming up the hydraulics of his suit. It smells like death, and all he wants to do is hose off his armor and take a shower.

He pauses for a moment, glancing into the barracks. Rhys is asleep, curled into a tight circle. He doesn’t see Haylen anywhere -- there are sounds coming from the makeshift workshop and the power armor rack, she must be there.

He clunks his way stickily down the hallway, glad to have some company for the unpleasant process of degunking his armor. Haylen is a good conversationalist, and a friend -- Rhys is too, he thinks guiltily to himself, but Rhys has been a little… sensitive recently. It’ll be nice to chat with her, especially since she won’t be hassling Rhys about his little --

That thought cuts off abruptly as Danse rounds the corner and finds Em, leaned over with his forearms propped on the workbench, fiddling with a bit of machinery and dancing along to the radio.

Danse was expecting his friend, not the man he’s had torrid dreams about since he hit puberty, so he’s not prepared to keep from noticing Em’s jeans, the top button undone, hanging low on his hips; or the bright red handkerchief, tucked into his back pocket; or the sway of his hips as he hums along to Uranium Fever, a little off-key; or the heady smells of sweat and engine oil. Aside from the fact that he’s apparently working on a helmet instead of some classic pre-war car, it could be ripped straight from the pages of July’s issue of Bearback -- at least, the first few pages of the July issue.

Danse isn’t really aware he’s staring until Em actually starts talking. “Hey,” Em says; Danse, with a supreme feat of will, wrenches his stare away from Em’s ass and towards his face. He can feel his entire body heating up from some combination of embarrassment and lust. There’s no _way_ Em didn’t notice.

“I thought you weren’t here,” Danse says. That’s too pathetic. He scrambles to recover. “What are you -- ”

“Adding a flashlight!” Em jumps in excitedly. “Well, headlamp technically, I’ve got the flashlight on my pip-boy, but I wanted something hands-free too.”

“A flashlight?” Danse asks. That’s _also_ inane, but in fairness, he’s currently distracted by the line of hair running down Em’s belly, disappearing into his (still unbuttoned) pants.

“For night patrol,” Em says earnestly, straightening up and stretching his shoulders out. His shirt rides up a little; Danse can see an inch of skin peeking out. He would happily throw his copy of the Codex off the Prydwen _right now_ to get on his knees and lick it.

He’s beginning to think this crush is becoming a problem.

“Well, uh -- get some rest, soldier,” Danse says. “We’ve got a mission, got to be at our best…”

“Yeah, just give me a minute to finish up here,” Em says, turning back and leaning far, _far_ across the table for a tool. His shirt rides up again, exposing the dimples on his lower back, his skin shimmering a little with sweat --

“Um,” Danse says. Em turns to look at him but doesn’t get back up -- he stays bent over the table like that, watching Danse with half-lidded eyes. Danse rips his eyes away from Em’s… anything below the waist and makes desperate eye contact. “I. Um. Sorry.”

...He really should say more than _that_ , but he… can’t. He turns clankily on one heel and starts for the door.

“Okay, so,” Em says. Danse pauses, glancing back over his shoulder.

Em shoves his hands in his pockets, looking uncomfortable. “Look,” he says. “Do you -- _not_ want to have sex with me? See, I thought this was what you were into, but I guess maybe -- not?”

Danse boggles at him. “What?” he asks.

Em looks, if anything, even more miserable. “With the whole -- ” He waves a hand in the air, then -- Danse is probably just seeing what he wants to see, Em’s a hell of a lot more confident and social than he is, but it looks like Em is screwing up his courage. “Look, I found your porn ages ago,” he says. “Those ridiculous old Bearback backissues? You’ve _got_ to find a better hiding place for them, man. So I figured, I already knew what your dick was into, I might as well sort of… recreate the scene.”

“Oh,” Danse says.

There’s a beat where Em looks like he’s waiting for Danse to say something else. “I… was trying to seduce you?” Em adds.

“Oh,” Danse says again. Then, “oh!”

Em visibly wilts. “Okay! Well, that answers that, I guess! Okay, well, uh -- sorry, about this,” he says, turning and hurriedly scraping the bits and pieces he was working on into some semblance of order. “Wow, okay! This is -- this is really embarrassing, shit. Sorry, I’ll be out of here soon -- ”

“Wait, no,” Danse blurts out. “I didn’t -- you were trying to _seduce me_?”

“Hah! Yes, sorry, just -- look, I’m embarrassed enough, here, can we just -- forget this ever happened?”

“And in the weight room?” Danse asks. “And -- ”

There’s a half dozen other instances he can think of, now that Em actually said something -- Em leaning a little too close while patching each other up, Em’s fingers brushing against his at dinner, Em leaning against him to take a nap --

“Yes, yes, that too,” Em says. He’s gone a splotchy reddish color and he’s holding the helmet he was working on in front of his chest defensively. “Anyway, I’ll go ahead and make myself scarce for a bit, I don’t -- I mean, of course you’re uncomfortable with all this, it’s not like I did a very good job of…”

“I’m not,” Danse breaks in.

Em pulls up short, looking up for a brief second.

“Uncomfortable.”

Em blinks at him. Danse realizes he really should use a full sentence. “I’m not uncomfortable. You... should stay,” he says. Even to his own ears he sounds uncomfortable. Em looks entirely unconvinced.

Look, clearly Danse has jammed one power-armor-clad foot directly into his mouth. He _can_ salvage this, he’s just got to take the bull by the horns, so to speak. He reaches for Em -- he gets about halfway there before he realizes he’s still covered in feral ghoul.

 _Sugar_ , okay, he’ll just -- “don’t go anywhere,” he says; in his nervousness he uses the voice he uses when he’s barking orders in the field and doesn’t even realize it until Em’s back straightens almost unconsciously, and _that_ is something Danse may need to put some thought into later. For now, though, he hastily strips out of his armor, leaving it in its own little puddle in the corner. Rhys’ll have his head for not cleaning that up, but that seems like a problem for tomorrow morning's Danse.

Danse heads back over, feeling light and stretchy the way he always does once he’s deshelled himself. He feels exposed like this -- not least of all because Em has finally looked up from his shoes and is giving him and his jumpsuit a frankly appreciative look.

This time Danse reaches out and Em closes the distance with enthusiasm.

“I-I should warn you, this _is_ against regulations,” Danse says rather weakly as Em grabs the loop at his collar and tugs him down.

“ _I_ don’t care,” Em says, and then his mouth is on Danse’s.

When they come up for air, Em is beaming at him. “Sorry,” Em says, not looking very sorry. “I know I’m not really very good at this whole -- seduction -- thing, heh. Preston -- my friend Preston, you haven’t met him -- he said to just go for it and use my words and so on, but, well -- ”

“Why didn’t you?” Danse asks. Em’s fingers are resting just below the edge of the pockets on Danse’s hips; he’s never been more aware of those few square inches of skin before in his whole life.

Em shrugs, looking uncomfortable. "It's not exactly like I've got a lot of experience, you know," he says.

“...You were a pre-War model.”

Em snorts. “What, you mean Bearback? Nah, man, that wasn’t a _real_ modeling gig, not really -- my boyfriend was one of the copy editors at the time, I was home on leave, and I really needed the money, it's not like this was a career or anything."

“But you’re in several issues -- ”

“It wasn’t exactly doing well. I’m pretty sure it folded after the seventh issue I was in. ...Very possibly _because_ I was in seven issues, I imagine the viewers at home probably wanted fresh meat, as it were.”

“Was he… with your kid? Your husband?” Danse asks.

Em looks confused, then bursts out laughing. “Oh. Oh! No, God, no, he wasn’t -- augh, no, that would have been _the worst_. No, Jesus, I was -- am, still am -- single, thank God. And he’s -- look,” he says, looking ashamed. “So -- I know Preston said he was my kid, but Shaun’s -- the neighbor’s kid? Look, I saw his mom get shot, okay, all his living relatives are probably dead, I’m about the closest thing the poor little nugget has to next of kin at this point, so -- ”

Under normal circumstances, Danse would ask more questions about that -- he’s not sure anyone else he knows would go all out for a stranger like that. Under these circumstances, though, Danse’s immediate concern is a little different. “So you’re _not_ a grieving widower,” he says cautiously.

“Nope! Single and ready to mingle, as it were.”

Emboldened, Danse slides his hand from Em’s hip to the small of his back, pulling him closer; Em looks delighted. “Good -- ” And then they’re kissing again.

The progression to the workbench is not particularly slow, but Danse is a little distracted, so he startles a little when he comes up against the edge of the workbench. “Hey,” he says, then gets distracted by Em nipping insistently at his lower lip.

“What?” Em murmurs against his lips.

“Um,” Danse says. He was going to say something, but then Em runs his fingers from Danse’s hips to the hook at the belt of his uniform and then thinking about that takes about as much effort as Danse can really spare right now.

Em toys with it, running his fingers around the border -- he makes a little noise in the back of his throat, and his lips stop moving against Danse’s. “So,” he says, still breathily, but with the hint of a laugh in his voice. “How -- do I actually get you out of this? Is there a zipper or something I’m missing, here?”

“Oh,” Danse said. “Oh, it’s -- um.”

He fumbles with the buckles at his neck. “Ahhhh,” Em says in enlightenment as Danse undoes the flap, revealing the zipper pull. “Isn’t _that_ clever,” and then Em’s fingers are on it and Danse can lean back and go back to sliding his hands up under Em’s extremely small shirt.

Considering that, until just now, Em’s attentions have been entirely above the waist, Danse can be forgiven for the noise he makes when Em reaches into his jumpsuit and palms his cock. “Huh,” Em says. “That answers _that_ question -- ”

“What question -- oh, _sh -- shoot_ ,” Danse says -- tries to say, at least, it comes out as more of a moan as Em runs his fingers way too lightly over the length.

“Boxers or briefs,” Em says, with a hint of a smile. “Here, get up on the bench -- wait, hold on,” he says hastily, but Danse is already lifting himself onto the workbench. “You’re gonna get tetanus,” he says, even as he runs his palms from Danse’s knees up his thighs to his hips.

“I’ve had my shots,” Danse says; he doesn’t realize how dumb that sounds until Em laughs. Still, it’s a nice kind of laugh, even if it’s at his expense -- and it’s a nice laugh, too, and made nicer by Em kissing him afterwards.

“Speaking of shots,” Em says as he goes to his knees, then pauses, making a face. “Augh, jeez, you know -- can you just forget I said that? That wasn’t sexy at all.”

Danse laughs and is about to say something when Em cuts him off. “Don’t worry, man, two steps ahead of you: ‘isn’t there something better you could be doing with that mouth of yours?’ To which the answer is yes -- ” and takes Danse into his mouth.

Danse slams a hand over his _own_ mouth -- apparently Em doesn’t mess around, and he may or may not have a gag reflex either. Em keeps going, swallowing repeatedly around Danse until he reaches the base of Danse’s cock, maintaining eye contact the whole way down.

“Wait, wait,” Danse gasps out.

Em grumbles in the back of his throat, which Danse can feel and it’s _unfair_ , and pulls free with a little pop. Danse is pretty sure he sees his entire life flash before his eyes. This is the worst decision he’s ever made in his life. Why did he make it again?

Oh, right. “There’s -- Rhys is just down the hall,” he stammers out. Em’s lower lip is swollen and pink; his tongue flicks out across it for a second. Danse is so hard he might actually literally just die. “And I don’t know where Haylen is -- ”

“Can you be quiet?” Em asks.

Danse nods frantically.

“Well, then.”

And _oh fu -- fudge_ , Em is good at this -- Danse squeezes his eyes shut and clutches at the edge of the workbench as Em gets back to the task at hand. This time he doesn’t go nearly as far; Danse is vaguely, selfishly disappointed for about a millisecond, until Em pulls back, his tongue dragging on the sensitive skin on the underside of Danse’s cock, and then he’s got more interesting things to think about.

Until Em stops again; Danse can’t help the noise he makes. “Hey,” Em says. “Hey, sweetheart -- eyes open. Look at me.”

Danse’s eyes fly open. Em is staring up at him, eyes dark. His hair is mussed and there’s a splotchy flush working its way down his neck and under his shirt, and his lips are wet and shiny, and he’s prettier than any picture of _anyone_ Danse has seen. There’s a smudge of grease over the bridge of his nose; a feeling of absurd tenderness wells up in Danse’s chest. Em goes cross-eyed watching him as Danse wipes it off with his thumb.

“Heh, thanks -- but. Eyes on me,” Em says.

The weight of Em’s regard feels like a tether between them; Danse can feel his face heating up. “But -- ” It’s all Danse gets out before Em, still watching Danse watch him, laps at the underside of Danse’s cockhead.

The whole thing feels unreal -- he’s imagined this before, getting sucked off by Manny Handel somewhere public, trying to keep quiet. None of his fantasies included the smell of soap and engine grease, or the way Em’s cheeks hollow out as he pulls back, or the little noises he makes that Danse can feel more than hear, or the sweep of Em’s lashes when he blinks, or how his breathing speeds up as he snakes one hand into his jeans.

...Sugar, Danse should be reciprocating in some way, shouldn’t he? Shyly, he reaches out and puts his hand in Em’s hair. He means to keep his touch gentle, but Em hums and Danse tightens his grip without thinking, and _that_ gets a reaction -- Em’s eyes flutter shut and he moans around Danse’s cock, the hand in his jeans speeding up.

“Hey,” Danse gasps out through a supreme act of will. “Eyes on me -- ”

Em’s eyes fly open and he makes an indignant little sound that reverberates through Danse’s entire body, but his eyes are laughing -- that’s what does Danse in, more than anything else. “Fuck, _Em_ \-- ” is all Danse manages to get out before he comes apart at the seams, his hips jerking up despite his best efforts, his hand tightening in Em’s hair.

Em rides it out and continues lapping at Danse’s cock until it’s too much; Danse tugs on Em’s hair with the intent of doing -- something, he’s not capable of thinking that far ahead right now, but that seems to be enough. Em shudders under Danse’s hand, his breath catching in his throat, then relaxes, slumping against the workbench, his body warm and solid against Danse’s shin.

“Fuck, sorry,” Danse says. “I was going to… I wanted to be good for you.”

“You _do_ swear! And I’m not complaining,” floats up from the vicinity of Danse’s knee. “Let go for a second -- ”

Danse’s hand is still buried in Em’s hair. “Oh!” he says, pulling back.

“No, no, here -- ” Em’s hand appears over the edge of the workbench, feeling around until he finds Danse’s hand. His hand gets dragged back down and brushed once through Em’s hair.

“Oh,” Danse says. He continues the motion; Em sighs contentedly and wiggles into a new, presumably more comfortable position with a little sigh. “How was that?” he asks.

“Outstanding,” Danse says fervently. It doesn’t register how inappropriate a compliment that is until Em lifts his head long enough to give Danse a funny look.

“No! Not outstanding -- I mean, yes, but -- I’m no good at this,” Danse admits in defeat.

Em looks at him for a moment longer before laughing. “Still not complaining,” he murmurs, relaxing back against Danse.

Danse pets Em’s hair for a moment longer. “I should get dressed,” he says. Em nods sleepily. “And clean up my power armor.” More nodding. “And -- Rhys is in the barracks,” he says, “and Haylen should be back at -- some point, so we should -- if you leave first, then I leave after -- ”

“Or,” Em interrupts, “you could come sleep down here with me.”

After a moment, Danse slides off the workbench onto the ground next to Em. It’s not that comfortable, and they’ll probably get cold, and there’s feral ghoul solidifying into the joints of Danse’s armor even now, but -- Em curls into him, slinging an arm across his chest, and it seems a little irrelevant.

That’s okay. Danse can enjoy the afterglow for a minute, and then he’ll get back to work. He closes his eyes, leaning against Em’s solid warmth. He’s allowed to enjoy this, just for a bit.

* * *

 

Danse wakes up with a start. Sunlight is pouring in through the window. Em is still there, sprawled halfway out from underneath the -- blanket? When did _that_ get there -- snoring quietly against Danse.

It takes some careful wiggling, but Em is apparently a heavy sleeper; tucking himself back into his uniform with a wince, Danse wraps the blanket around Em and pads out into the police station. It’s still early, maybe he can dodge Haylen and --

“You look like hell -- long patrol, huh?” Rhys says sympathetically.

Danse freezes.

“We’re just on our way out,” Haylen says. “We got word from Sanctuary of some salvage near here.” As Rhys turns towards the door, she mouths YOU OWE ME at Danse.

Danse nods fervently.

She nods, then wiggles her eyebrows at him and makes an obscene hand gesture as soon as Rhys’s back is turned. “Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do,” she singsongs.

“What was _that_ supposed to mean?” he hears Rhys ask as the door closes.

“Don’t worry about it. Let’s go.”

He’s going to have to wingman for her until he dies.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a poorly-disguised Fallout version of "Mercedes Boy". Written for the new no-het kink meme on Dreamwidth, the Atomic Wrangler
> 
> Thanks (as ever) to my pals for proofreading everything!


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